


Eminem and the King

by thesecretdetectivecollection



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Coffeeshop AU, Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-19
Updated: 2017-02-19
Packaged: 2018-09-25 15:08:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9825881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesecretdetectivecollection/pseuds/thesecretdetectivecollection
Summary: “Whenever I get coffee at your Starbucks you spell my name wrong and it’s turned into a challenge to see how many jokes you can make about it."





	

Emre Can is young and handsome. Unfortunately, he is also poor. Not the awful, horrendous, for-just-69p-a-day-you-too-can-help-this-guy type of poor, or the digging-through-landfills-to-find-something-to-eat kind of poor. Just your average student-who-works-on-the-side-and-wears-threadbare-jean-out-of-necessity,-not-fashion kind of poor (but the fact that they're in fashion doesn't hurt, to be honest).  
  
Leaving Germany had been a hard choice, when things had been so easy there, but it had been the right one. He’d been getting too spoiled, restless, and aching for a challenge, for a change.  
  
So he’d come to England a couple of years ago, twenty years old, young and pretty and sharp all over—wit, eyes, tongue… And jaw, as Dejan had reliably informed him.  
  
He found himself at a university in Liverpool, studying European politics, hoping to go into international relations at some point. The girls loved that, it had the unusual dual advantage of being an incredibly smooth chat up line and actually being true.  
  
  
**Monday**  
At the minute, though, he was just hoping to make it through his hellish double shift at the local coffee shop so he could go home and make himself some noodles and do a bit of reading about the League of Nations before bed.  
  
The shop was loud, bustling, and when the tall blond guy ordered his coffee, Emre asked for his name and heard _Geor_ —and the rest was lost, as a young child threw a tantrum over not getting the muffin that was drenched in chocolate. So he, quite reasonably, wrote _George_ on the cup. The guy wouldn’t care that much, anyway, right?  
  
The guy looks confused when he calls his name, scans the shop and waits for someone else to pick up the cup. But when no other George steps up to take the cup, he smiles a little and steps forward, looking at Emre to give him a chance to say it’s for somebody else. But Emre just looks at him, wondering why he’s being so slow, when Emre needs to be _fast_ , needs to deal with all the others in line.  
  
“Thank you,” George says politely before he leaves.  
  
**Tuesday**  
The next day, Emre’s working again, but it’s much quieter. George comes in again, and orders the same coffee.  
  
“It’s George, right?” Emre asks, marker poised over the cup.  
  
The guy laughs, scratches awkwardly at the back of his neck.  
  
“It’s Jordan, actually. You must have misheard me yesterday.”  
  
“Oh. That’s embarrassing. I’m sorry about that,” Emre says awkwardly.  
  
“It’s okay—the lads at work got a good kick out of it. Wanted me to come back for more, so do your worst, mate.”  
  
Emre hands his cup to him by hand that day. It says Jordyn.  
  
“How do you know I don’t actually spell it like that?”  
  
“You don’t _look_ like a dick,” Emre says casually.  
  
Jordan laughs out loud.  
  
“Thanks, I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says fondly.  
  
Emre smiles. “Haven’t driven you away yet?”  
  
“Mate, the boys at work are gonna love you. You might be seeing me every day for months, until you run out of jokes.”  
  
**Wednesday**  
On Wednesday, Emre’s tired, but he perks up when he sees Jordan come in on his lunch break.  
  
“Hey,” he says cheerfully.  
  
“Hi. You look like shit.”  
  
“I didn’t know we were on that level yet,” Emre says casually, raising his eyebrows.  
  
“Well, we are now.”  
  
“In that case, I’m Emre Can. And you’re Jordan…”  
  
“Henderson.”  
  
“Brilliant. Good to meet you, Hendo. Same as usual?”  
  
“Yeah, please, mate. And why do you look like shit?” He’s not being pushy, just curious, in the way that friends are allowed to be. Emre hadn’t known they were friends, really, but apparently Jordan thinks they are.  
  
“I’m a student—I had twenty-five pages on the importance of the League of Nations to the formation of the UN due today.”  
  
“That sounds truly awful.”  
  
“S’okay—ate up at least two pages with footnotes and _Ibids_.”  
  
“That still sounds pretty terrible, lad.”  
  
Emre’s smile fades. “Yeah, it wasn’t a great way to spend the past three days,” he says quietly.  
  
“What would you like?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“To drink. I’ll buy you something to drink, though you’re still gonna have to make it, I dunno how to make anything but shitty office coffee.” Jordan says earnestly.  
  
“You know what? Bring me a cup of shitty office coffee tomorrow, if you want, and I’ll drink it on my break. I’d rather have that than anything from this place.”  
  
“Sure, lad, you got it.”  
  
Emre smiles at him again, and hands him his cup.  
  
_Michael was the GOAT_ , his cup says today, with a little picture of a basketball underneath. _Love, Eminem_.  
  
**Thursday**  
“Eminem? Got a high opinion of yourself, there, mate.” Jordan says, holding a cup of shitty office coffee, as promised.  
  
“Hey, don’t complain, I called you the GOAT!”  
  
“You made a joke about Michael Jordan, not me,” Jordan says with a little smile, “I brought you this, as promised. Don’t complain about how bad it is—I warned you.”  
  
“I’m a student—I live off bad coffee and free food,” Emre says with a crooked grin. “I’ll get your drink and drag my lazy colleague out here while I take my break, and we can go drink it outside.”  
  
Emre ducks into the back and brings out a reluctant blond–haired man, around the same age.  
  
“Lo! Loris! I know you’re new, but you know how to make all the drinks, the machines here are just the same as they were in Germany, even if this is a bigger shop. Come on, you’ve got to start somewhere. I’m just going out for a few minutes.”  
  
Emre pats his shoulder reassuringly before taking off his apron and ducking under the counter. “Back in a few minutes, okay?” He says kindly to the wide-eyed lad, who nods.  
  
He leads Jordan out of the shop, pushing the door open and holding it for Jordan to pass through after him.  
  
“Right, here you go.” Emre hands him a cup and Jordan hands over the cup of shitty office coffee in return.  
  
Jordan turns the cup. Apparently it’s for _King Abdullah II_.  
  
“I… don’t get it.”  
  
“He’s the king of Jordan. Little Middle Eastern politics joke for you. I’m brilliant, I know.”  
  
“Oh my god, you’re a nerd!” Jordan accuses, laughing more at Emre’s amusement than at the joke itself.  
  
“Guilty,” Emre says easily, sipping the office coffee.  
  
“Uh, I didn’t know how you took it,” Jordan says, nodding at the coffee, “so I added a sugar and a bit of cream?”  
  
“Yeah, it’s fine. I don’t like it too sweet anyway. It’s nice. Exactly what I needed.”  
  
“Good,” Jordan says with a smile.  
  
“So the lads at work still haven’t gotten over my comedic genius?”  
  
“They love you, well my group does. There’s me, Dan, Ads, Milly, and Clyney. Today’s joke is right in Milly’s wheelhouse—I bet he’s going to laugh his ass off. The rest of us are way too dumb to get this. Clyne, Ads, and Studge liked the one about Michael Jordan.  
  
**Friday**  
As soon as Jordan’s through the door, Emre knows what he’s going to order. He looks a little worn out, like someone who went out late on Thursday night and drank a few more than a few drinks before realizing the weekend wasn’t quite the next day.  
  
The shop’s nearly empty, it’s pretty quiet, and Jordan looks like he’s grateful, behind his dark sunglasses, more for the hangover than to look cool, if Emre had to guess.  
  
“Lo! Give it another go, okay? You were brilliant yesterday. Just a few minutes, while I take my break, yeah?”  
  
Loris runs a hand through his hair, smoothing it back, and agrees, looking reluctant, but not as afraid as the day before.  
  
Emre takes Jordan’s arm and guides him to the darkest corner of the shop.  
  
“I didn’t pay furrit,” Jordan mumbles.  
  
“On the house. Charity discount, because today you look shit.”  
  
“Went out last night.”  
  
“Had too many drinks?” Emre asks with a relaxed grin.  
  
“I don’t drink. But a few mates wanted to go to the club, and I was dancing with this girl, and we ended up staying up late.”  
  
“And the glasses? Did you smoke or something? Trying to keep your bloodshot eyes to yourself?”  
  
“No. I get migraines. Normally they’re okay, but not sleeping makes them worse. I stare at a computer all day long, my eyes can’t take it if they’re not rested enough. My brain just starts melting. It hurts, Em, when your brain melts.” complains Jordan.  
  
“Oh, I’m sorry, lad,” Emre says, clucking sympathetically, “Are you nauseous at all, mate?”  
  
Jordan shakes his head. “Not nauseous. Just hurts.”  
  
“I’ll be right back with something to help make you feel a bit better. Why don’t you put your head down in the meantime, huh?”  
  
Dejan says Emre is the mom friend. Emre doesn’t appreciate the label, because his fashion sense is _flawless_ , thanks very much, but he does become uncannily like his mum when his friends get ill, taking care of them and coddling them until they’re well again.  
  
He comes back to the table a minute later, bearing a steaming mug of hot cocoa and a nice fresh-baked chocolate chip cookie, chips still all melty and gooey.  
  
“Here you are, mate, that’ll be nice,” he says quietly, trying not to bother him.  
  
Jordan mutters a grateful thank you and starts working at the cookie.  
  
“So was she pretty at least? The girl who kept you up all night?”  
  
“Gorgeous,” Jordan says with a grin, “her name’s Becca, and she even gave me her number. We’re going out next week. Brilliant dancer, too.”  
  
“Bring her here on a coffee date,” Emre suggests.  
  
“Why, so you can make a Jordan-themed joke on my cup and she can laugh at me with you?”  
  
“I can tell you what I think of her.”  
  
“Speaking of which, what did you do today?” Jordan mutters, turning the coffee cup around.  
  
_Hendo_ , it says in Emre’s neat handwriting.  
  
“Jokes are fun and all, but you looked like you couldn’t even read it, so why waste my talent?” Emre jokes.  
  
Jordan smiles fondly at him and leans back.  
  
“Hendo’s just fine, mate.”  
  
“And Eminem works for me.”  
  
“You’re fucking dreaming if you think I’m going to call you Eminem from now on, mate."


End file.
